All Fun and Games
by Peres
Summary: Whenever Hawke thought back on it later – and she had plenty of reasons to – she still thought it was ridiculous. A silly prank war, started over a silly card game... and it got a bit out of hand. Well, that was an understatement. It nearly killed her.
1. It's All Fun

**Author's note: This fic was written for the incredibly talented and all-round wonderful Hatsepsut. I gave her a prank war, and she... she gave me steamy Valen tailsmut. I practically fell off the chair. If you are a fan of sexy tieflings using all their assets, go read 'That Damned Tail'. I guarantee you won't be disappointed, although you may find yourself looking for either a certain demon-blood warrior or an ice-cold shower. I certainly did. **

**For the record - the shower? Not so helpful. **

**Anyway... on with the prank war.**

* * *

Varric dealt the cards – three for Hawke, two for Isabela, four for Fenris, five for himself. Varric was winning as usual, but Fenris was doing nearly as well, especially considering that the three rogues at the table considered themselves honour-bound to cheat on every hand. It might have had something to do with Hawke slipping a few cards into certain parts of the deck.

She eyed the big, beautiful pot, which contained more of her money than she should have staked. Only a miracle would bring it back into her hands, particularly with nothing but a lousy Double Mabari.

"This has got to be the last hand," Hawke said, and tried not to think about every night she'd got in late and found her mother reading in the library. Hawke would ask about the book, Mother would ask about the cards, and they'd wander upstairs. Mother would tuck her into bed, kiss her on the forehead, and Hawke would fall asleep immediately.

It'd been hard to fall asleep, the past few months.

"Sweet thing, staring at your cards isn't going to make them change."

"You never know." Hawke shook a blonde curl out of her eyes, and turned her best toothy grin on Isabela. "Sometimes I stare at you, when the light's really bad, and just for a moment, you look like a..." she dropped her voice, evoking a fate too terrible to be spoken aloud, "like a lady."

Isabela's laughter startled a bat out of the rafters.

"When did Blondie check your eyes last?" Varric shook his head. "Or are you just getting better ale than me? Speaking of which..."

"There is _no_ good ale." Fenris crossed his arms over his chest. "Are we going to wager, or just sit here?"

"You sound confident, Broody." The dwarf passed around full tankards; Hawke was thirsty enough to drink some of hers right away. "Hawke been slipping you the good stuff?"

"If by 'good stuff' you're referring to the way I've been replacing the contents of his tankard with wine while you were distracted – yes, I have."

"That's not the _good_ stuff." Isabela could make one word do the work of several advanced volumes in tantric sex magic. The kind with really explicit diagrams.

Hawke didn't blush. She didn't even glance at Fenris, although a lesser woman would have betrayed herself ten times over by now. Yes, she'd always loved looking at him. She entertained certain fantasies about him – sometimes three times a night – which involved them both naked, that sinful voice of his, and maybe a pair of manacles. She'd made it clear that she was ready to play whenever he was.

Sadly, it was starting to appear that time would _never_ come. She would have given up, if she didn't catch him watching her sometimes. Alternatively, she would have gone round to his house, taken all her clothes off and ambushed him, except that she knew how Fenris's ambushers tended to die. She liked her heart where it was, thank you. Well, maybe if he'd wanted to take it in a non-gruesome, non-fatal manner... she'd give that some consideration.

Fenris dealt – one card each. Hawke regarded the Dominance card. Well, she was in with a chance after all...

"Got anything worthwhile, Hawke?"

"You'll have to wait and see," she said.

_Meant_ to say.

What everyone at the table heard, what actually came out of her mouth, was "Double Mabari with Dominance." Hawke covered her mouth with the cards, appalled.

"Well, what do you know? Looks like the genuine article after all." Varric pulled a tiny flask out of his sleeve and raised it in a wordless toast. "Hawke... Hawke, Hawke, Hawke. How many times have I told you _never_ to let me buy your drinks? Especially when we're playing cards?"

"You never have." The words fell out of her mouth despite her best efforts. "Probably so you could play a dirty trick like this."

"You wound me, Hawke!" Varric sighed dramatically, as Hawke looking around the table. Isabela had a glint in her eyes that spelled trouble; Fenris was still and uncertain. "Maybe I never warned you, but you ought to have known."

"Never mind all that," Isabela waved her hand. "Important stuff. Hawke, why aren't you interested in me?"

"You're female and too aggressive." Try as Hawke might, the words came out anyway. "And I bet, without that corset to hold 'em up, your tits sag down to your knees."

Isabela pouted. "Do not. I could show you."

"Rivaini, you're squandering a priceless opportunity here." Varric leaned forward, a quill and paper appearing magically in his hands. "Be honest with me, Hawke. What do you want from Fenris?"

The elf shot to his feet. "I do not care for this line of –"

Hawke's hands leapt to her mouth, but not swiftly enough to stifle the urgent cry of "Sex!" Maker's breath, but Varric had gone too far this time. Nor was that all; she squeezed her hands tighter over her lips, but "Lts 'f schs!" escaped her anyway, audible even over the howling laughter of Varric and Isabela. She didn't dare look at Fenris as she pushed away from the table and bolted for the door. The heavy door of the Hanged Man, which she'd need both hands to open.

Maker...

Hawke steeled herself and grabbed for the door as she kept talking. "– and then he'd take a Blade of Mercy and s-"

The door closed behind her and they never heard the end of the sentence – which wasn't to say it went unspoken. A Lowtown whore regarded Hawke wearily. "Cost yer ten bits extra for that sort of thing, luv. And you'd have to bring yer own turnip."

-0-0-0-0-0-

The potion wore off by the time she got home, which was something of a relief. Assuming any of them were still awake, she didn't really want to tell Bodahn _exactly_ how her night had been, or traumatise Sandal and Orana.

There was only one response, of course.

Revenge.

Hawke lay away half the night thinking it out. Not just for the humiliation, of course, and not just because she couldn't stand to lose. She'd walked a bloody careful balance with Fenris, and if that evil dwarf had spoiled everything...

Well, she knew his weak spot.

She schemed and she plotted, and finally, when the sun peeked over the horizon, she fell asleep.

She'd make Varric regret every instant of it.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Orana knocked timidly on her door far too early the next day. "Mistress Hawke?" Taking the heart-rending groan as consent, she entered. "Mistress Hawke, I brought a tonic." A hand stuck out of the nest of blankets, and Orana put the glass in it. It disappeared into the pillows. "And you've a guest downstairs. I told him you weren't at home to visitors, but he said he'd wait until you were." The empty glass appeared.

Hawke croaked, "If it's Bran again, tell him I'm dead."

"It's Master Fenris."

Pillows flew everywhere as Hawke sat upright. "_Fenris._ Oh, Maker. Did he look – how did he look?"

"Much the same as usual, mistress."

Well, that was as helpful as a sword made of noodles... but she would have to face him sooner or later. "Would you tell him I'll be down soon, please?"

Orana nodded and whisked herself away.

It was not exactly _soon _afterwards that Hawke judged herself respectable and ready to face Fenris, but it wasn't too long, either. There was nothing to be done about her haystack of hair, her bloodshot eyes or her ringing head (whatever that potion Varric had slipped into her drink had been, the after-effects were nearly as horrible as the truth-telling), but her face was clean and she felt certain she could manage the stairs without falling over.

Even if she did have to hang onto the banister for dear life.

Fenris was reading in the library, of course; his lips moving slightly as he sounded out the words, so engrossed he didn't notice Hawke opening the door.

Maker, she loved to see him like this: sunlight falling on his hair, black eyebrows drawn together, green eyes intent, utterly unselfconscious. She really hoped it wouldn't be the last time – but she had no idea how he'd react to what she'd said under the influence. "Fenris?"

The elf looked up and rose to his feet in greeting. He always did that, and Hawke had always enjoyed the gentlemanly courtesy. "Hawke."

"What brings you here so early in the morning?" Hawke asked, attempting normality.

"It's past midday, Hawke." He took a deep breath. "I wanted to make certain you took no ill-effects of that potion. And..."

Hawke was smiling. He'd come to check on her. That _had_ to mean they were all right and she didn't have to gruesomely murder Varric. "And?"

"... and what you said."

"Don't worry over it. I'm a young woman with a libido who finds you very attractive. You know that. I'm not about to get naked and jump you. I can wait until you get naked and jump me."

His lips twitched. "Your patience is exemplary, Hawke." More softly he added, "And one day, I hope... but –"

"I know," she answered. "So we're good, right?"

"Indeed." Fenris inclined his head. "There is one more thing. If I know you, you are readying some kind of revenge on Varric."

Hawke grinned. "You _do_ know me."

"I would like to help, if I may."

Hawke swiftly thought over her plot. She'd envisaged it as a one-rogue operation, but having a gorgeous warrior with Fenris's particular talents along certainly couldn't hurt. "Well, here's the plan..."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Varric rubbed at his forehead. He _hated_ the Merchant's Guild with a deep, unholy and abiding passion, only surpassed by the way he felt about Merchant's Guild meetings he couldn't bribe or wriggle his way out of. He usually spent the time scribbling notes for his latest _Hard in Hightown_ serial. Hawke had certainly given him a few ideas... _"– and then he'd take a Blade of Mercy and s-"_

A shame about that cut-off final word. Had it been 'shoves' or 'spanks'?

"Atrast nal tunsha," the leader droned.

Varric stood with the rest of them and chorused just as dutifully, "Atrast nal tunsha." And that, thank the merciful Mother of Green Cheeses, was the end of it. He filed out with the rest of them, and made for the little hidey-hole where he always secreted Bianca on such occasions. No visible weapons were allowed in the meetings, but, dwarf politics being what they were, nobody was entirely unarmed. Bianca was just too big to hide.

Besides, it wasn't a nice place for a lady.

He was humming her tune when he sprung open the little cache –

- and found her gone. He reached in and groped around, just in case something had gone wrong with his eyes.

Varric found only a slip of paper. With shaking fingers he unfolded it – just a few lines in Rivaini's rough handwriting.

_Dear Varric,_

_We've had some good times, haven't we? Some bad ones, too, but I was there to help you through it all. Always. _

_But the time's come to call an end to it. The bad times have outweighed the good ones lately, and I'm tired of you neglecting me and taking me for granted. Besides, I met someone else – a dusky goddess, a sultry siren of the sea, a woman who makes my cocking ring shiver. So, dear Varric, so long. I'm leaving you for Isabela. _

_Love and kisses,_

_Bianca_

_P.S. The way I used to quake in a Rhyming Triplet? I faked it. Every time._

He hadn't meant to crumple the note. He hadn't meant to punch the stone wall and make his knuckles bleed. He certainly hadn't meant to curse so loudly that people in Starkhaven would be asking each other which syphilitic Rivaini whore the screaming dwarf had meant.

He knew where to find her, and when he did, the pirate would _pay._

-0-0-0-0-0-

"I didn't take Bianca," Isabela protested – as if she would do anything else with an extremely hostile dwarf playing with a dagger and blocking her exit.

"Oh, of _course_ you didn't." Varric had gotten over the incoherent rage; the time he'd spent waiting to ambush Isabela had cooled him to an icy, sarcastic fury. "Let me guess, it was all Warden-King Cousland's work?" He glared at her, as though he could force her to return his beloved crossbow with a sufficiently violent scowl alone. "I know your writing, Isabela! You've always coveted her!"

"Maker's saggy balls, Varric, I didn't write the bloody note and I didn't take Bianca. I would have if I'd thought of it, but I didn't." She crossed her arms. "You know who else knows my handwriting, is an excellent forger, and probably really wants to teach you a lesson about now?"

"_Hawke?_" Varric scoffed, dismissing the idea. "Hawke wouldn't do something like this. She loves me."

"Even after your little trick with the potion in front of her elf?"

"Oh, she wouldn't get all bent out of shape over a little thing like that –" Isabela was slowly shaking her head, wearing her best 'you moron' expression. She usually saved it for Blondie. "You mean, she would?" Slow nodding, this time. Not that he was in the habit of believing Rivaini... but this carried conviction. You didn't see it often, but Hawke had a nasty streak wider than the Bone Pit.

Varric shook his head. "I could almost be proud of her. Can't believe she suckered me so easily."

"_I _can't believe you interrupted me and a pair of perfectly good naked templars on something this flimsy." She narrowed her eyes. "I expect proper repayment, you know. Even for me, it isn't easy to talk those sardines out of their tins."

"You know, it's really Hawke's fault. You could help me get even – doesn't revenge give you such a nice thrill?"

"It's not as delicious as an Antivan milk sandwich, but if that's the best you can offer – wait." The pirate grinned at him – dangerous sign, that. "You want my help, I get three sessions with your chest hair."

"You're only using me for my pelt, Rivaini."

"And you're only using me for revenge."

"Well, not quite," Varric admitted. "You're a bit sneakier than I am, and you can get places I can't. Like high shelves. What do you say? Deal?"

"Deal."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Since they were both there, the afternoon had turned into a reading lesson. Fenris didn't really need the supervision anymore, and his handwriting was coming along nicely, but old habits died hard, and both of them enjoyed the peaceful time together.

Fenris had chosen a volume of poetry to read; he'd expressed a preference for the more formal and concise form several sessions ago. It had shocked Hawke at first – she would never have thought of Fenris as poetic – but she had to admit, Fenris reading poetry was a sound guaranteed to make even the most withered Chantry sister scurry off, looking for dry smalls.

"To be surrounded  
and shaped by the circle  
the strength of your arms. Clasped  
against your heartbeat, held  
as nobody has ever held me before."

Fenris paused a moment. His rich voice faltered just slightly on the next verse.

"There is danger here  
I was taught. I have never  
felt so safe."

Hawke sighed. "That's not the end, is it?"

"Not quite. I just – in so few words she expresses so much of what I f-"

"Mistress?" Orana stuck her blonde head around the library door. "Your friends Master Var-"

"Varric and Isabela," the dwarf barged in, followed closely by the pirate. "I want a word, Hawke."

"Only one? That's a first." She rose to her feet with one regretful glance at the book of poetry in the elf's hands. Time for that later, perhaps. "Which word would that be?"

"Bianca," Varric said.

"Pretty," Hawke nodded. "I don't see the relevance, though."

"_Where is she?"_

"You've lost her? Well, that was careless of you."

"Hawke, cut the_ crap. _You took her. Where is she?"

Hawke shrugged, a graceful, careless gesture, and conceded. "I wrote the note – well, I took dictation. And maybe I embroidered a bit, but I still haven't the faintest idea where Bianca's gone."

Varric stared at her; her blue eyes did not even falter, or smile. He knew she was a first-class liar, but nobody was that good. Not even him. So... ah, yes. Behind her, Fenris was studying a little book with an air Varric recognised from certain card games. "Fine. Forgive my intrusion."

"Any time," and now Hawke did smile.

"Hawke?" the dwarf added, as she and Fenris escorted them to the door. "That crack about the Rhyming Triplet was a very low blow."

"That's the only way to hit a dwarf," Hawke told him, and did something with her mouth that showed all her teeth. You couldn't quite call it a smile.

"This isn't over."

"Good."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Fenris always slept lightly; deep sleep was a luxury that neither a slave nor a fugitive could afford. The half-dreamt sound of a soft footstep woke him. Someone was here.

He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep a while longer. To be awake when an intruder thought you asleep was an advantage of sorts. His hand crept to the short blade he kept tucked between his bed and the wall, just in case this sort of thing occurred...

It was gone.

Fenris suppressed the flare of panic – they had known where the dagger was, and they had taken it without waking him.

He was in deep trouble this time. If they had removed the dagger, his sword would not be within arm's reach either. While they could not take the lyrium from his skin – yet – it was not a great deal of help against arrows.

Fenris took a deep breath and tensed –

- and nearly choked on the unmistakeable mix of musk and salt that characterised Isabela. He had no idea why the pirate would come to his room at night – well, once he put it in those terms, it did make perfect sense for her. Removing his weapons in case he woke up violently – which he would have done – well, he wasn't afraid of her.

"Isabela," he growled, opening his eyes and spotting the grey shape in the shadows, well away from the moonlight seeping in through the crack in his curtains. "Get out."

"Fenris," she purred, coming towards him. "I'd _so _hoped you slept naked. Life's just full of little disappointments, isn't it?" She raised her palm to her lips and blew something at him – a dust that sparkled in the thin stream of moonlight. "Go back to sleep."

He tried to hold his breath, but the scent of it made him cough and he breathed in the dust. Almost immediately the room became black, and Fenris knew no more.

-0-0-0-0-0-

"ORANA!"

The elf cast a glance at the eggs she was cooking for breakfast. On one hand, they would burn if she left them unattended for any length of time, and neither Bodahn nor Sandal could be trusted; on the other, Mistress Hawke never yelled for her. Certainly not in such heartbroken tones.

She left the eggs to burn and took the stairs two at a time.

Less than three minutes later, she was running for the market.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Fenris had only a few things in common with Merrill. They were both green-eyed elves who followed Hawke – so much for the obvious similarities. One of the less obvious ones was that neither of them possessed a working mirror, once allowance was made for their different definitions of the word 'working'. Merrill's mirror didn't allow her to summon demons or perform other blood magic rituals she'd wanted it for, and Fenris's didn't reflect; it was nothing more an empty frame, its glass lying in shards outside his window to discourage anybody who might attempt to enter that way.

He didn't want a whole one. The only things he saw in a mirror were Danarius's cursed brands.

He frowned at the windowsill. The splinters showed the sky, and no change in their pattern. Isabela had not entered that way.

Fenris padded downstairs, drawing his shirt on as he went. Isabela had not returned his sword and dagger to their proper place; at a guess, he would find them either where he'd hidden Bianca (not much of a hiding place, but that had been Hawke's instruction) or not at all.

Fortunately, she had left both weapons in the little alcove, along with a note wrapped around the greatsword's hilt. It read: _I still say you're compensating for something. _Fenris let it fall, strapped the sword across his back, and left his house. Time to report to Hawke.

He was used to Hightown's passers-by staring at him, but the usual scrutiny of the tattooed elf with the big sword seemed rather more intense. There was also laughter. Well, Fenris had borne much worse in his time; nevertheless, he ducked his head and hurried on.

Orana nearly ran into him; Fenris caught her by the shoulders just before she would have gashed her cheek open on his gauntlet. "Master Fenris!" she gasped. "You too!"

"Excuse me?"

"Mistress woke up in a terrible state. I – I need to run, please excuse me –" and she darted off.

Unlike Merrill and Fenris, Hawke did have a working mirror. It hung in the entryway, so she could check her appearance before she left the house. Perhaps she was somewhat vain, but Fenris considered that perfectly understandable. He liked to look at her, all laughing blue eyes and tumble of pale gold curls; why shouldn't she enjoy her own beauty too?

The scent of burnt eggs filled the house.

Fenris ducked his head as he passed the mirror, avoiding, as far as possible, the flicker of his reflection, barely visible out of the corner of his eye.

A flicker of black and blue.

_Blue?_

Fenris turned and looked at his reflection. Large sword, black and silver spiky armour, green eyes, pointed ears and high-bridged nose. Sky-blue hair.

Part of him thought calmly: that was why people had laughed and stared. Another part, much less calm, was imagining all sorts of vivid and painful things he would do to Isabela – and to Varric, because he was certain the dwarf was as guilty as he was hirsute.

And then he realised: Hawke.

He rushed upstairs – ignoring Bodahn's confusion over all the fuss – and to her room, where the rogue was sitting by the window, a blanket wrapped so closely about her shoulder, head and body that all he could see of her was the doleful expression on her face. She didn't even look up. "I'm in a terrible mood, Fenris. Better go away."

"Hawke –"

"I am not a pretty woman, Maker knows. My nose covers half my face and my eyes are slightly crossed. My ears stick out, I have no figure to speak of, and I have fat fingers."

There was some truth in all of this, but the overall effect was certainly not unappealing. "_Hawke_."

"I had one beauty, one perfect head of glorious flaxen hair with the kind of curls poets write sonnets about, and what do they do?"

"They dye it blue," Fenris said quietly, and Hawke kept talking over him.

"They dye it _blue – _wait, how did you know?" She looked up at him. "Oh, Fenris, they got you too."

"Indeed," he murmured, "but I had less to lose than you. Let me see." He tugged the blanket back, and she let him, revealing curly hair of a rich, royal blue, gleaming like velvet in the sunlight slanting through the windows. He studied the effect with some care. "It is not ill-suited to you," Fenris decided, and could not resist the urge to touch one azure ringlet. It was as soft as it looked. "It is remarkably considerate of Varric and Isabela; the colour matches your eyes exactly."

"_I have blue hair._"

"And it becomes you. You have always been a striking woman; now it is merely more obvious. You might give some thought to keeping your hair thus."

Hawke snorted, but it seemed the awkward and heartfelt compliments had mollified her to a degree; at any rate, her sense of humour had returned. "Perish the thought. With my luck, Meredith will decide it makes me an abomination or something." She tossed her hair back – the play of light upon it reminded Fenris of the sea. "When I couldn't wash it out, I sent Orana for some bleach – or, failing that, some black hair-dye to mask it. Would you like some?"

"I may avail myself of your generosity, yes. I already possess a higher profile in this city than makes me comfortable; to be 'that runaway elf with the big sword, tattoos and blue hair' would be ludicrous."

"Mistress! Mistress Hawke, I'm back!" Orana's bare feet made little noise on the carpet, but the sound of her panting carried much better. "I found your dye!"

"Please, Hawke," Fenris said, as Orana scurried into the room. "Leave your hair as it is."

"You really like it that much?" She looked confused – and perhaps a little pleased.

"I... do," Fenris admitted, and added, "Consider also the reactions of Varric and Isabela. They intended this to tease, even upset you a little; would it not be amusing to watch their faces when they realise you like it?"

"It'd drive them up the wall," Hawke admitted in turn. "Right now, I am all for that." She crossed the room to her chest of drawers, and the hand-mirror that rested atop it. She frowned at her reflection. "It does have a certain something. What about you?"

"Disguises are somewhat ineffective... but black hair rather than white might make me a little less obvious."

Hawke laid her mirror down and looked at him intently. "Given your eyebrows, it might have even been the proper colour of your hair before Danarius did his evil magic trick. I'll confess, I'm curious to see you with black hair. I don't think the blue does anything for you – it clashes with your skin and makes your eyes look yellowish." She turned to Orana. "Ever done this before?"

The elf shook her head.

"Me neither."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Inexperienced she might have been, but Hawke rather enjoyed it. She never touched Fenris; she had learnt long ago that the lyrium brands caused him pain, and a raised hand still made him flinch, in expectation of a blow.

But there were no brands on his scalp, and as Fenris sat fully-clothed in the empty bathtub and Hawke massaged the dye into his hair, the elf gradually relaxed until he resembled nothing so much as a purring cat. "You are... very good at that, Hawke."

"You'd never guess _all_ of my talents," she said.

It surprised a chuckle from him. "I am certain. You have a knack for surprising me, Hawke."

"I hope that's a good thing," Hawke laughed, and patted his head gently. "Now, apparently, you just have to sit while the dye works. Twenty minutes or so."

Twenty minutes which passed quickly, as they discussed the proper course of action with regards to Varric and Isabela, and then Hawke insisted on leaving the bathroom – Fenris could rinse out his own hair, and a hot bath was not a luxury available in his dilapidated mansion.

Hawke was discussing the discreet procurement of several items with Bodahn (who was very surprised at her new hair colour) when Fenris came down the stairs – a Fenris whose dark hair was tousled and still damp, a few drops of water still visible in the shell of his ear.

The sight of him hit her hard – for an instant, she couldn't even breathe. Oh, yes, black hair suited him – with a warm rush of pure lust, Hawke stared at the point of his ear against the dark hair. She wanted very badly to lick the water droplets from it.

"Hawke, you're staring. What is it?" Fenris's eyes were wide and uncertain. For just a moment, the tattoos, symbols of all that had been done to him, were invisible, and Hawke thought she saw the man Fenris had been before Danarius had destroyed his life. It made her... it made her want to hold him close against all the troubles and pain of the world, as if she could protect him against the magister and his past – and anything else that might come their way..

Oh, _Maker_.

That wasn't just desire.

"I... just realised something," Hawke told him, and tried to steady her voice against her epiphany. "You look _very_ good with black hair."

Fenris laughed a little – that awkward sound she loved to surprise from him, which meant he didn't know how to handle her comment, but was not averse to it. "I assume all is in readiness for our next volley?"

"Change of plans on Varric; despite the whole blue hair thing, I'm not quite prepared to shave his chest yet. Got this instead-" she held out two tubes for Fenris's inspection – "and you can pick up the other bit in Lowtown today, while I go talk Anders into helping with Isabela. I might check out the Emporium while I'm there; you never know what Xenon has that could be helpful. Don't forget to choose the colour carefully."


	2. And Games

Errands run and evidence hidden, Fenris and Hawke waited for the others – all of the others apart from Aveline – outside the Hanged Man.

Merrill was first. "Hello, Hawke. Your hair is blue, did you know?"

"I do, actually."

"Well, that's good, then. It's pretty. Do you think I'd look pretty with blue hair? Or pink? I like pink."

"Surely green would be more Dalish?"

Merrill considered that for a moment. "No, I never met a Dalish with green hair. It's black or brown usually. Sometimes red."

"I meant that –"

"And Fenris! Your hair is black, did you know?"

"Yes," Fenris growled, and was saved from further conversation with Merrill by the opening of the Hanged Man's door, and the exit of Isabela and Varric (holding Bianca very firmly).

"I still don't see why we have to wait out here," Isabela was saying, "away from all the grog – oh, hello, Hawke."

"Isabela!" Hawke greeted the pirate as warmly as she ever had, "and Varric!"

"Hawke," Isabela returned the greeting after barely a moment's pause. "You know, I can't put my finger on it, but there's something different about you today."

"Polished armour?" Varric suggested. "Varnished nails? New eye-make up? And I think Broody's got some of whatever it is as well. "

Isabela waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that's easy. He had a good night's sleep for once."

Merrill giggled. "_I_ guessed! They both dyed their hair."

"Kitten –"

Anders came hurrying up. "Sorry, emergency – oh." Hawke had sworn him to secrecy about her visit and her little request, but she'd worn a hood when she'd visited him, just to elicit a genuine reaction in front of Varric and Isabela. "Hawke... what in the Void have you done to your hair?" He shook his head. "I mean, obviously, you've dyed it blue. Why?"

Hawke tossed her bright blue hair. "It seemed like a good idea. Don't you like it?"

"I... uh... look, it's weird. Ask me in a week, when I'm used to it, and maybe I'll have an opinion for you. Don't dye it again in the meantime, or it'll take longer." His eyes glanced over the little group. "Everyone here, I see. Where are we off to this time?"

"Sundermount, to pick up a tool for Merrill. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours – Keeper Marethari is friendly enough, but the rest of the clan aren't going to insist we stay for a frolic."

"Of course not!" Merrill said, as they headed for the city gates. "It's not frolicking season – too many hedgehogs about."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Well, it hadn't been as simple as that – Hawke's plans rarely were. In this case, she hadn't allowed for Marethari making them kill an ancient elven spider-monster-thing before she'd hand over the tool, but that was the sort of hitch Isabela was used to by now. Lots of people wanted Hawke to kill things for them.

The bit where she's misjudged her backstab and the varterral had kicked and sent her flying into a wall wouldn't be one of her top ten memories – those all had naked people in them – but it wasn't too bad, really. It had also led to Anders putting his hands on her and asking her (although with a rather serious sort of face) to see him in private back at his clinic.

After they'd gotten back to Kirkwall, she'd taken just long enough to clean all the corpse goo off herself and change her boots for the red pair before heading to Darktown. If there was any possibility of that lovely electricity trick in her future (and she certainly hoped there was!), she wanted to be prepared.

Isabela sauntered in through the double doors with all the grace and nonchalance of a cat. "Hello? Can Anders come out and play?"

"Isabela," Anders's voice drifted from the private area at the back of the clinic. More and more promising. "Good, you're here."

"I am," she purred as she found him, sitting on the edge of his narrow little bed. Poor mage, he looked so nervous. She grinned, closing the inner door behind her. Locking it. "And _so_ curious about your little invitation..."

"Ah, well, it's... of a medical nature." Not only nervous, but embarrassed, too. "You see, while I was healing you, I noticed some... other damage." Anders turned his back, and rattled off a long, technical lecture, of which Isabela caught only a few words – but those were extremely alarming. 'Overstimulation', for instance, wasn't too bad, until he started adding 'nerve damage', 'clitoral', 'possibly permanent', 'abstinence' and 'numb'.

"What are you saying?"

Anders sighed and tried again. "Too much sex, Isabela. The nerves in your... genital area... can't take it. They need a rest, or they'll die on you permanently. You won't feel anything down there ever again."

Isabela just froze. The very idea... "Ever again?" she squeaked out. "You're a mage – fix me!"

"There's no spell for it. Just – don't touch. Don't let anybody else touch, either. Your smalls and your... toiletries... are bad enough. Total abstinence in that area for a month, and some moderation after that, and you should be fine."

"I can't believe – actually, I really _can't_ believe this. Did Hawke put you up to this?"

"Hawke?" Anders shook his head, as if thoroughly bewildered. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, I bet you don't." She turned on her heel, flicking her hair in his face. "Tell her it was a nice try."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Back in the privacy of her little room at the Hanged Man, Isabela stripped off and regarded her body, naked except for a pair of sexy red boots. She loved her body – all that sleek skin, luscious curves... no doubt about it, she was an outrageously attractive woman. Isabela chuckled as she thought about Hawke's attempt at a prank. She was probably just jealous. Her hands drifted over her flat stomach and down – and Isabela screamed.

She could not feel her fingers' gentle touch at all.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Varric woke, his face feeling oddly stiff, very itchy and far too warm. He brought his hands up – and screamed.

There was a luxuriant beard attached to his face.

-0-0-0-0-0-

"-of course I asked Merrill! She said that I wasn't under a curse and to check with Anders." Isabela pouted. "I still think Hawke's behind it."

Varric tugged – again – at the beard that had been glued onto his face. His attempts to find a solvent had failed, and when he'd tried to shave it off, he'd only cut himself. Scissors had blunted on the coarse fibre – in short, he looked ridiculous. "Well, Rivaini, one month won't kill you-"

"Are you kidding?"

"- but I think we really have to put our heads together. It's Orana's day off tomorrow, and I think Hawke's arranged for Bodahn and Sandal to..."

It took some time to concoct a suitable scheme, and by the time they'd worked everything out, it was late afternoon and time for Diamondback.

It was a rather subdued group who met for cards at the Hanged Man – and for once, the pall wasn't due to the presence of guardsmen. A bearded dwarf dealt cards to a blue-haired rogue, a black-haired warrior, a pirate who was uncharacteristically waspish, and a Guard-Captain and her husband, who were both clearly burning with curiosity but wise enough to pick their battles.

They were several hands in – Donnic winning, Fenris rivalling him, and Aveline not far behind, for none of the rogues seemed to be cheating as well as usual – when the guardsman took courage, or else decided to try and throw the opposition further off their game. "Some new freak of self-expression, serah Hawke?"

"You could say that," she replied, smiling over her cards. "I'm more curious about this beard that's sprouted overnight on Varric's face. Like some magical hairy mushroom."

"Pfft," Varric said, and waved his hand. "I just turned my prodigious skills at hair growth in a more traditional direction for a while."

"Uh-huh." Aveline didn't sound convinced. She laid her cards down on the table. "And it's not linked with Fenris's new hair colour either? This whatever-it-is better not spill over into my city, Hawke."

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about imitators," Hawke grinned at her. "Kirkwall's never admired my fashion sense."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Maybe Hawke didn't set the trends, Orlais being a far greater influence upon Kirkwall fashion, but that didn't mean that people didn't pay attention to what she wore. Particularly when she strode though Hightown wearing black leather that clung far too tightly to her body and was under some strain at the front. The spiky black gauntlets and spiky silver breastplate tucked under one arm didn't help, either, and the way she had to walk – owing to the tight trousers and the lack of shoes – drew far too many eyes. Most of them looked hurriedly away when they noticed her glaring back. A few seemed to take it as encouragement.

Hopefully, Fenris was awake; the sooner Hawke was out of his armour and into something that actually fitted, the better. She wouldn't have even tried to wear it, but there was, literally, no other piece of clothing left in her house. Her clothes, right down to her clean smalls – gone. Bodahn's, Sandal's, Orana's – gone.

She'd even mustered enough courage to go into Mother's room. Everything there was exactly as she had left it on that day the white lilies had arrived – except for the wardrobe, which was empty.

That was just going too far.

The mansion door swung open under her fist. "Fenris?" she yelled, and heard no response but echoes. Hawke climbed the stairs, cursing Varric and Isabela at every step. On the top step, she nearly slipped on a piece of paper, but caught herself in time. Bending down to pick it up was sheer torture, but she managed.

There were only a few words on it, written in her own messy scrawl.

_Hanged Man. Urgent._

_Hawke_

She really was going to kill those two. All the way through Lowtown with bare feet?

Wait – why'd they lured Fenris away?

Oh, Maker.

His cupboards were empty.

-0-0-0-0-0-

By running her fastest through Lowtown and never stopping to look at what she trod in, Hawke made it to the Hanged Man... too late to do anything useful. All the usual patrons – plus Merrill and Aveline – were there, watching.

She _was_ in time to see Fenris glowing bright blue. In fact, she could see considerably more gleaming lyrium than usual, because he was wearing her rogue armour. Fenris was taller and leaner than her, and so there was quite a gap between the sleeves and the gauntlets. And he'd eschewed the boots, so that his legs were bare from his feet to the bottom of the skirt.

Sweet Maker.

She wanted to just stand there and ogle.

The elf was advancing on Varric and Isabela. They possessed a measure of self preservation, and so they were backing away – but it wasn't a large enough measure to keep them from pissing themselves with laughter over the ludicrous figure Fenris presented.

"Fenris!"

He whirled around at the sound of his name – Varric and Isabela took full advantage of the distraction to slip out of the danger zone – and he looked at her, standing silhouetted in the doorway in skin-tight black leather.

Hawke _saw_ his eyes widen, something new in their depths.

The lyrium brands flickered and went out.

Varric and Isabela started laughing at her, of course, but Hawke couldn't care less. She'd seen something in Fenris's eyes she'd been waiting to see for a long time – and really, she knew she looked funny.

Not that she was going to let it slide, of course. If nothing else, Hawke owed them for ransacking her mother's room.

"Seen enough?" she asked the dwarf and the pirate.

"Not quite, Hawke," Varric laughed. "I need to get an artist to immortalise this. A nice, big double portrait, I think."

"I've been waiting for this moment for a long time," Isabela sighed with satisfaction. "I could almost die a happy woman; I've finally found out what colour Fenris's smalls are."

"Isabela-" Hawke warned her, but the pirate just kept talking.

"Four pairs black, and one a rather fetching green. It matches his eyes."

"Isabela –" Fenris growled his own warning.

"He's wearing one of the black pairs under that lovely skirt," Isabela concluded happily. "Process of elimination."

Varric generally knew when to stop. Not today, it seemed. "Besides, friend, you're a champion brooder, but you're no expert at moving in a short skirt. Everyone in the tavern's had a good look at them by now."

Isabela nodded. The Bad Poet nodded. The other patrons nodded. Merrill nodded. Aveline flushed a scarlet that clashed horribly with her hair.

"It's rather traumatic at my height," Varric added.

Fenris pivoted on his heel, preparing to storm out... and Varric was entirely correct. That wasn't a movement he should have ventured. Hawke caught one tantalising glimpse of muscular thighs and squeezable buttocks-

- and then Fenris was gone.

She took one moment to compose herself, and tried to cross her arms before she realised she didn't have that much movement in the leather shirt. "Varric," Hawke said, "Isabela. Where are my clothes? And my mother's?"

"Upstairs," Varric jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate his suite. "You'll find them all there – Orana, Sandal, Bodahn, Broody's as well."

Aveline rose to her feet. "You are both going to give Hawke a hand taking them back to her house." It wasn't a request.

Varric nodded rapidly. Nearly five years, and he still hadn't lost his awe – or perhaps fear – of Aveline.

"And you won't touch my mother's things ever again," Hawke added.

"Hawke..." Aveline said softly. "You can't leave that whole room a shrine to her memory. That's not what your mother would have wanted."

"You... may be right," Hawke said softly. It hurt, though. To clean out that room, to get rid of all her pretty things... to have nothing left except memories...

She physically shook herself out of it. Standing in the middle of the Hanged Man in Fenris's armour was really not the place for more grieving. "Let's get to work."

-0-0-0-0-0-

To call it his mansion was to paint a false picture. It was a glorified bolthole, a dilapidated set of walls that sheltered Fenris from the weather. It was not his, any more than the protective amulet Hawke had insisted he wear was his own; at best it was neutral territory. It provided no more than an illusion of sanctuary or peace, but it did provide small measures of quiet and privacy, and those Fenris sorely needed. Not just to hide from the realisation that he'd made a fool of himself (though ably assisted by Varric and Isabela), but also because of Hawke.

Hawke.

The armour smelt of her; lemon soap and sandalwood oil, with just a darker hint of blood, poison and smoke grenade clinging to its leather. It was a fragrance he had grown fond of over the years, just as he'd grown to enjoy the presence of the irrepressible rogue, with her questionable sense of humour, her peculiar mixture of blunt honesty and bald-faced lies, and constant flirtation.

She had made her interest in him obvious right from the start. He had been slow, perhaps, to understand exactly what he felt, what he wanted-

"Fenris?"

"Hawke," he answered, hearing the creak of the door as she entered. Not just her, either – he recognised the distinctive footfalls of Varric and Isabela as well. They entered, moved around a little, and left again, the door slamming behind them as Hawke climbed the stairs.

He saw, with hastily-quashed disappointment, that she had changed into old, sensible, non-revealing clothes, and that she was carrying his armour. "The rest of it's downstairs; Aveline insisted that the Evil Twins help bring everything back. She offered –"

"_Hawke." _She looked up at him, a question in her eyes; a question for which he finally had an answer. "I have been thinking of you, of what you've said –" Fenris swallowed. His throat was almost painfully dry, and the halting words were not coming out as he'd wanted. "- what you've... offered. And if... if I am still what you want..." the sentence trailed off.

"But it's not just about what _I_ want, Fenris," Hawke's voice was soft and certain – and close. How had she gotten so close?

"I..." He couldn't find any words at all. Instead, with a sureness that surprised him, he reached out to her. His palm cradled her cheek, his fingertips tangled in the blue silk of her hair, and, tentative and wondering and afraid, he kissed her.

Soft and sweet were her lips, but her hands grasped his shoulders as though she would never let him go. It was... more than he could have imagined, and then soft and sweet became hungry and demanding, and the passion of her response only made his desire more urgent.

The necessity of stopping long enough to gasp some air felt almost like a blow. Hawke was cradled against his chest."Fenris," she said, her voice low and husky, almost inaudible, "it isn't just about wanting, either." She turned her face up to him, and Fenris saw something in it he almost did not recognise.

Why should Hawke be so afraid?

"You see, Fenris," she said, and took a deep breath. "I'm in love with you."

Fenris froze. Hawke... Hawke _loved_ him? It didn't make any sense. She was bright and beautiful, and he – he was a runaway slave, little better than the wolf Danarius had named him, just as savage and bestial, a coward and a murderer. The Fog Warriors could have told Hawke that. He could only hurt her.

But he held her in his arms as though she belonged nowhere else.

"It's okay, Fenris," she said softly. "I just... I just wanted to tell you. Don't let it bother you." She brushed a stray lock of black hair back behind his ear.

"Hawke..." he dropped his head. "Hawke, I... I cannot imagine a life worth living without you."

"Well, that's a start, then," she said, and kissed him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Varric was never truly at ease in the Viscount's Keep. On one hand, there were plenty of rich marks about; on the other hand, there were far too many guards. Besides, it was Aveline's home territory, and the Guard-Captain was the scariest woman he knew. Even the advent of Donnic hadn't seemed to loosen her up at all.

Varric shook his head, following Isabela's line of sight. "You can stop ogling that one, Rivaini," he said. "You're not his type."

She laughed. "I'm everyone's type, Varric. The fun part is proving it to them."

"You don't recognise the viscount's son?"

"I could seduce him," Isabela insisted as they descended into the guard barracks.

"Only by disguising yourself as a male Qunari."

"Take some doing," Isabela agreed, "but it's not impossible."

Aveline looked up from the wads of paper on her desk. "That's enough out of you two." She slipped a piece of paper into an envelope and sealed it with a blob of plain wax. "There. I need you to deliver this to Knight-Commander Meredith."

"Ooh, orders. I _love _orders."

"Shut up, whore," Aveline responded automatically. "I need this to reach her today. Wait for her response, but don't say who it's from."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Aveline, but don't you have a barracks full of minions who could play courier for you?"

"They're not messengers, Varric. They are guardsmen, and they are fully occupied." Aveline hesitated, which wasn't something you saw often. "And this missive... it's a delicate matter. I can't send anyone official, and you two are the most unofficial people I know." Another little pause. "There is a small... fee for this service." She named the sum – which was not that small, but not large enough to be suspicious.

"You can't ask Hawke?"

Aveline glared at them. "Hawke is busy enough cleaning up the mess you made of her belongings."

Isabela had about as much conscience or sense of guilt as a cat, and was never intimidated by Aveline; Varric had neither defence. He took the letter. "You owe me one, Aveline."

"Possibly," she admitted.

"Come on, Rivaini. Think of all the templars you can chat up."

-0-0-0-0-0-

By Varric's count, it was five templars (three male, two female) just on the way in; he was looking forward to seeing how many more bodies the pirate could rack up on the way out.

Chantry repression was a dangerous thing – but amusing.

"Knight-Commander," Varric said, when their blushing templar guide had squeaked something incoherent and scurried away. "A letter for you."

"I see," Meredith said. She took the letter, broke the seal, started reading it. It seemed to be several pages long, the paper thick enough that no ink showed through. Her face was absolutely expressionless as she read, but somehow... well, not only was the Knight-Commander nearly as scary as Aveline, but the hair on the back of his neck was prickling in the way that suggested they'd walked into a trap.

Finally she folded the letter in half and looked up at them. "An intriguing missive," she said neutrally. "Serah dwarf, your name is Varric? And this is Isabela?" They nodded, but Varric was backing up, fumbling to find the door behind him – as discreetly as he was able. "It is rare indeed," Meredith continued, "to find citizens of Kirkwall who understand my position and the sacrifices it entails, and who are public-spirited enough to do something to soften the hardship."

Varric and Isabela exchanged glances. Just what had Aveline – no, _Hawke - _volunteered them to do?

"I am hardly so stubborn or proud as to turn away help so freely offered." Meredith stood, tossing the letter down on the desk. It landed face-up, and Varric couldn't help but look at it.

And then he was unable to look away. Oh, he knew his own bold, angular script, all right, but the bit that really had his eyes stuck to the paper was the drawing in the centre of the page. An extremely detailed drawing of the three of them – Varric, Isabela and Knight-Commander Meredith –in an anatomically improbable (but not impossible; Rivaini had mentioned she could dislocate her shoulders) tangle of naked limbs.

Meredith smiled at them, and Maker's breath, it was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen – at least until her hands moved to the fastenings of her armour.

"F-forgive me, m'lady," he managed to stammer out, "but-"

Isabela vaulted up onto the desk, grabbed Meredith by the pauldrons, and planted a wet sloppy kiss on her lips. It was intense. It lasted uncomfortably long. And Meredith had a rather... dazed look when the pirate eased back. "That's just a teaser, sweet thing. And we'll be back for the whole deal – I just have a little medical condition to deal with first." She tipped the templar a bawdy wink and jumped off the desk - and paused long enough at the doorway to blow another kiss.

"Now," she hissed to Varric as they left the Templar Hall, "don't look back and we just might make it."

"You know, Rivaini, I never thought I'd say this... but I am going to kill Hawke."


	3. Someone Loses an Eye

But not immediately, Varric thought, not even soon. It shamed him that he could even think about their little vendetta as they sat in the Hanged Man, steadily getting drunk(er) and trying to forget the shadows of the Chantry, and a broken-hearted old man cradling the body of his son.

"Don't worry," Isabela said quietly, just for his ears.

Aveline was leaning against Donnic and deflecting Merrill's questions; Anders and Hawke were drinking in grim silence, and Fenris was watching them in even grimmer silence, verging on positively grisly. Something had changed between Broody and Hawke, Varric had noticed; he hoped it was for the best. "Don't worry about what?" he asked, remembering to react rather belatedly.

"Hawke and Fenris. This little war we have going? I have the next volley under control."

"Rivaini... don't you think we should just drop it?"

She gave him that "you moron" expression again, which apparently meant 'no'. "Varric. I _kissed_ the Knight-Commander. I can't have sex for a _month_. They are not getting away with this. I admit, I'm not as good with the plans as you, but this will buy us a little time..." and she murmured a few words in his ear.

"You –holy mother of nugs, how did you manage _that_?"

Isabela smiled like an extremely satisfied cat. "I screwed him once."

"How long until -?"

"A couple of days, I think."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Hawke was not eager to face the day. The death of Saemus had left a very bad taste in her mouth, hardly compensated by the death of that scheming bitch Petrice. Some days Kirkwall was just like an explosive waiting for some idiot to strike a match...

On the other hand, there was Fenris... nothing really had been decided between them since that day, but that wasn't a bad thing necessarily. She loved him and he knew it; he was tentative and afraid, but he wanted her – more than that, he cared for her. They stole kisses, too often for discretion, but as for anything more – there was a certain tension, not unpleasant, between them. They were, she thought, waiting for something.

She wasn't sure what.

"Mistress Hawke?" Orana's soft voice scattered her half-formed thoughts.

"What is it, Orana?"

"I brought you breakfast, and a message arrived for you. It looks important." Hawke struggled to sit up, and Orana waited until she looked steady to balance the tray, with its tea and toast and fruit and letter, on her lap. "Call me if you need me, Mistress."

"Music practice?" she smiled at the elf.

"If – if that's all right, Mistress. I've completed my other duties, I wouldn't neglect them!"

"_Orana_," she said, and the girl calmed down again. Hawke hated to see it, but sometimes she forgot that she was no longer serving a magister, and that Hawke wanted her to be happy first and foremost. It was such an alien idea, apparently.

And that made her think of Fenris again – well, most of her thoughts did circle around to him.

Absently, Hawke pried free the griffon seal on the letter, and took a bite of toast.

It was a short epistle, written in the hand of a man who didn't have a great deal of patience with this writing nonsense. It was formal, concise, and Hawke spat crumbs all over her bedspread when she read it.

_Serah Ardanne Hawke,_

_This is your official Notice of Conscription. By the authority of the Grey Warden and the crown of Ferelden, you are hereby ordered to report to the Royal Palace in Denerim by summer's end for induction and training as a Grey Warden. _

_Failure to comply or desertion is punishable by death. _

_Gorram Cousland_

_By Andraste's grace King of Ferelden, Teyrn of Highever, Arl of Amaranthine, Commander of the Grey. _

Breakfast forgotten, Hawke barely remembered to get dressed before she bolted out of the mansion.

-0-0-0-0-0-

She found Fenris poring over a letter identical in every respect except the 'Ardanne Hawke' bit. She waved her own at him.

"It's got to be Isabela and Varric again," she said. "It's _got_ to be a forgery... but I could swear that's the genuine seal of the Grey Wardens – I saw it once in Lothering. I can't imagine how they might have come by it if isn't a fake. It _has_ to be fake."

"Hawke," Fenris said, "you are babbling. It is either another of Varric and Isabela's pranks, or it is genuine. If it is a forgery, then there is no reason to panic. If it is genuine...?"

"Then we are both in very deep trouble. Nobody crosses the Grey Wardens." Hawke sighed and pushed her blue hair off her forehead. She sat down beside Fenris. "Either way, how in the world did they do it?"

Fenris smirked. "A question I am sure they are still asking themselves after several of _our_ responses. Isabela may know that you are responsible for her current bout of chastity, but I doubt she has worked out exactly when the abomination cast his little nerve-block spell."

Hawke grinned. "And I would never have guessed you could draw pictures like _that. _I expected them to come back short a couple of limbs for that little stunt with the Knight-Commander."

Fenris raised his arm, inviting her to come closer; he hissed a little as he slid his arm about her shoulders and the simple contact stabbed through his lyrium brands. Hawke winced a bit. It seemed selfish to enjoy touching him so much when she knew it hurt him – but then, Fenris was the best judge of weighing what he could stand against what he wanted.

Those brands...

Hawke jerked upright and stared at the elf, as a stunning, brilliant idea struck her with all the force of a half-brick in a sock. "Fenris, even if it isn't genuine... _The Grey Wardens. _If ever there was a place Danarius couldn't touch you..."

Fenris got up, pacing back and forth as he did when deep in thought. Hawke expected him to say something about darkspawn and the Deep Roads, or about Bethany's death at her own hands because of them; about taking orders again; that entering the Grey Wardens was for life and almost the same as slavery. Instead, when he stilled, he turned and looked at her, and all his heart was in his green eyes. "You... also received a letter," he pointed out quietly.

Hawke felt herself smiling, joy filling her, making her feel so light she could have danced the Remigold in the air above his head. "_Fenris_. Of course I'd come with you. You don't imagine I'd let you get away from me now, do you?"

Fenris rushed her, knocking her down onto the bed, covering her throat with small kisses and smaller bites. She laughed, threading her hands in his black hair and locking her legs about his waist to bring him even closer. "Everything," Fenris gasped, punctuating each word with another kiss. "Friendship. Freedom. Safety. A future. Your love. All your gifts. Let me-"

"Yes." It didn't matter what he would've said next.

Fenris pressed his forehead to hers, staring down into her eyes as if he could see her very soul. "Let me – there is nothing I can give you except –" He took a shaky breath, but his voice was sure, and his eyes almost blazed with hope and – "I am yours, and if you wished it, I would stand in the Chantry and swear it."

- and love.

"Fenris," Hawke murmured, tracing the long, elegant line of his ear. "Did you just ask me to marry you?"

"Yes." He echoed what she had already seen. "I... I love you, Hawke."

She smiled playfully up at him. "Well, I could probably do better-"

"Festis bei umo canavarum, muliercula!"

Hawke wasn't sure what that meant, but it clearly wasn't flattering. "- but, Fenris, I am _yours_." She shifted her body beneath his, feeling him hard against her. "In every sense of the word."

"No," he said softly, and silenced her objections with his mouth. "Not yet. I will wait, and claim you properly first." He took a breath. "Tonight, if the Grand Cleric allows. Otherwise, tomorrow. A ship to Ferelden and the Grey Wardens by the end of the month."

"Hasty man," Hawke said, and pulled his mouth down to her. "I like it. But..."

"But?"

"But either way, we need to do something truly spectacular to Varric and Isabela first. Call it a farewell gift."

Fenris furrowed his brow, and thought. "Have you noticed how the way the pirate runs off as soon as we approach the Qunari compound?"

-0-0-0-0-0-

The smell of salt and shit meant he was on the Docks, the pain of his skull suggested somebody had knocked him unconscious and dumped him there, and the warmth against his back suggested he wasn't alone. A stream of curses meant Rivaini had just come to, and if Rivaini was there, it meant that Hawke and Broody were behind it.

The world, soft in the thin morning light, swam hazily into view. They were right outside the Qunari compound. Curious choice of venue.

Right. What else could Varric deduce? Both his hands were handcuffed to Rivaini's, and that wouldn't usually be a problem, except that Hawke had a very accurate idea of what the two of them could manage by way of escape and had probably accounted for it. He started shaking a lockpick out of the lining of his coat anyway.

"Varric?" He'd never heard Rivaini sound like that before. Like him, the pirate queen was always full of confidence and a stylish swagger, but now she sounded... well, if he were telling the story in his usual charming fashion, he would have called her shaken.

If he were being honest, he would have gone for 'about to shit her non-existent pants with terror'.

With some effort, he slipped her a second lockpick, and started work on the cuffs. "Varric, this is very, very bad."

" Is that 'left to die in the Deep Roads by a treacherous bastard of a brother' or 'Knight-Commander Meredith has amorous intentions' bad?"

"It's 'that relic I stole is the most sacred thing the Qunari have, they came to Kirkwall specifically to get it back and they know I took it and _what I look like_' bad!"

"Holy nug crap, Rivaini! You've been sitting on that all this time?" Varric tried to brace himself against her back and get his feet underneath him.. "The handcuffs can wait, let's just get _away_."

"You didn't need to know!" Isabela protested. "I thought I could keep out of their way until I found the fucking th – Oh, _fuck._"

"Rivaini? Don't clam up on me now –" he swallowed. On the wall opposite was the tall, wavering shadow of a Qunari.

-0-0-0-0-0-

A crashing downstairs interrupted Hawke's breakfast with Fenris, itself a replacement for the one interrupted by the conscription letter. She sighed and set down the kippers. "No peace around here."

"Hawke!"

That was Varric, and Fenris smirked. "I think that was successful."

Varric appeared in the doorway, and he didn't look amused or irritated or even angry.

He looked terrified. "Hawke, Broody, you need to come _right now._ Rivaini's in trouble, and it's your fault."

"What?" Hawke rose, reaching for her daggers. "What happened?"

"The Qunari," Varric told her, as they raced down the stairs and towards the Docks. "That relic she stole? Only _the _Qunari relic. Only the reason they're here in Kirkwall in the first place. They know she took it."

"They will not believe that she does not know where it is," Fenris said, looking rather green. Even if he did not care much for the pirate, he had put her into the hands of the Qunari. This was not something they could ever forgive – and it was _his _fault. "They... they will not treat her kindly."

"Oh, sweet Maker," Hawke gasped, and they ran on. "However did you get out of there, Varric? Can we sneak in?"

"They let me go! I wasn't Rivaini." Varric was making a valiant effort to keep up. "If they get my messages, Aveline and the mages will meet us there. Broody, you know the Qunari – what can we do?"

"We can storm the compound and get slaughtered," Fenris replied, without sarcasm. "If the Arishok will parley, however, there may be a chance." He was thinking furiously, calling on every scrap of language and lore he had ever learned. The Arishok respected Hawke...

If they would only let him speak...

Aveline, the abomination and the blood mage were indeed waiting for them – which might save them all if it came to a brawl, or doom them if the Arishok was in a talking mood and a single one of them opened their mouth.

"Hawke, what's happened?" Aveline greeted them.

"The Qunari have Isabela," she answered quickly. "That relic was Qunari. I don't know what they're planning for her-"

"-but it wouldn't be pleasant," the captain completed the sentence. "Well, that's not happening. If anyone kicks her arse, it's me. What's the plan, Hawke?"

"Fenris does the talking," Hawke said firmly, "and nobody else says a thing. If that doesn't work, kill everybody that stands between us and her."

"No," Fenris said, his stomach one sick mess of guilt and fear. "If the Arishok will not talk, then there is nothing we can do for Isabela. We run." And live with the knowledge that he had sent her to her – not death exactly, but re-education under the Qun, or existence as a mindless labourer.

"Well, that's simple," Hawke said. "I like simple. Everybody ready?" Her friends nodded with varying degrees of determination. "Good. And just for luck..." Hawke grabbed him, and Fenris only just suppressed his reflexes in time. She kissed him - hard, hungry, almost desperate. "I will be very cross if you do anything stupid, like getting yourself hurt," she muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear over Aveline's "Well, that's new, isn't it?", Anders's "You know, I could have done without seeing that," Varric's "About time. Who would've thought it?" and Merrill's giggle, "Ooh, that's so cute!"

"You hear me, lover?" Hawke asked.

He nodded, took a deep breath. "Let's go."

They almost marched down into the Docks district. Fenris flanked by Hawke and Aveline; Merrill, Anders and Varric tucked in behind them. Fenris banished his fear, lifted his head. Some things you learned in slavery could be useful.

He greeted the gate guard in fluent Qunlat, requesting an audience with the Arishok, using what he _hoped_ was the correct balance of command and respect. It must have been close, for the Qunari called to another, out of sight, that Hawke was here. There was a silence, and then the Arishok himself spoke in a language they could all understand.

"She may enter. Her _bas _may accompany her."

It seemed Hawke, and Hawke alone, was worthy of recognition. That was not promising... but at least he was talking. They approached the broad stairs that led to the Arishok's dais. At its top, the Arishok stood in his accustomed seat, his warriors about him. Off to one side stood Isabela, by herself and still; it was only after a second glance that Fenris saw faint blue glow to her skin, the _saarebas _whose spell held her, and the _arvaarad_ who held the mage.

"_Shanedan_, Hawke," the Arishok greeted her.

Hawke glanced at Fenris; he shook his head and stepped forward. "Greetings, Arishok." He spoke in rapid Qunlat; he had only one chance to make this desperate gamble work, and it depended on the Arishok accepting him as something more than just another useless _bas. _

"You wish to duel for the thief," the Arishok rumbled in the same tongue, before Fenris had broached the subject. "I had expected something of this kind." He rose, picking up a massive sword and an axe that was even larger, and descended the stairs slowly. Fenris knew a moment's exultation – it had worked, the Qunari had agreed to his wild plan – and a cold fear. He was good... but was he good enough?

Hawke took his hand; hers was cold, and trembling. He wished he could explain what was going on...

"But you are not worthy," the Arishok continued, and then switched to the common tongue. "Hawke. You alone are _basalit-an_. Will you fight me for your thief?"

_No. _Not Hawke.

She swallowed and released his hand. "A duel. For Isabela."

"Kill me," the Arishok continued, "and the duty that binds me is ended. You may take your thief; my warriors will return to Par Vollen to await the appointment of the next Arishok."

"If you kill me...?" Hawke almost whispered the words, and Fenris closed his eyes against the pain of them. No. It could not be so. If his stupid idea got Hawke killed... he did not see how he could go on living.

"Then you will be dead," the Arishok answered. "And we will stay here until we meet the Qun's demand, or until it becomes necessary to impose order upon this city."

Hawke nodded and squared her shoulders. "Then –"

"No!" Fenris said. "I _will not allow it!_ Arishok. She is female. She is... she is _kadan_. This fight is mine."

"Not just yours," Aveline said. "We all stand together."

The Arishok dismissed them both. "Hawke is _basalit-an_. You are not. What is your answer, Hawke?"

"Fenris," Hawke said softly, "it's okay. I can do this." She looked up at the massive Qunari. "I _think_ I can do this." She loosened her daggers in their sheaths and stepped forward. "I accept, Arishok."

The horned head nodded. "Good. There is to be no interference. Come." Hawke looked terribly small beside the Arishok as they walked to the centre of the compound. The Qunari surrounded them, sketching out a rough ring for the duel – a ring with no cover, little room to manoeuvre, and no way for Fenris or the others to interfere if things went horribly wrong.

"I don't like this, just so you know," Anders muttered.

"Oh, but Hawke will win," Merrill reassured him. "She's terribly clever."

"Hey, Broody," Varric patted him on the shoulder. "She'll be fine. No story that _I'm_ telling would end here. Too untidy."

"This isn't a story, Varric," Aveline said, watching unflinchingly as Hawke adjusted her armour and spun her blades around her hands to test their responsiveness.

Hawke nodded, and the Arishok charged – an unstoppable force, unbelievably fast, impossible to withstand- but not to evade. Hawke was simply there one moment, and gone the next. In the dust of the Arishok's wake, a flicker of blue appeared – and the Arishok roared as Hawke plunged a dagger into the back of his knee.

A disabling strike – surely it would at least slow him. Hawke ducked under the slashing sword and axe, crushing a smoke grenade as she went. The Arishok turned, seeking her – and if the wound she'd inflicted bothered him, he gave no sign of it – and spied her standing at the other end, baiting him to charge again.

It went on like that – the Arishok charging, Hawke dodging, sometimes only by the slimmest of margins, and striking back at him, dealing wounds that seemed to have no more effect than a fleabite. He was monstrously strong, far too fast and far too large; Hawke looked so small and so fragile, a butterfly duelling a bear. The minutes dragged like hours, but each moment stood out with terrible clarity.

Aveline beside him, muttering fierce encouragement and advice to Hawke, who could not hear her.

Hawke's blades dancing an intricate pattern with the Arishok's, forced back at each clash by his superior strength, his greater reach.

Varric and Merrill cheering her on, so very confident...

Twinned daggers biting deep into the Arishok's sword arm, his grip on the blade loosening.

The Qunari's axe striking, and Hawke twisting clear of the killing blow just in time – but not escaping it entirely. Her cry of agony as her dagger fell to the ground, accompanied by two small-

Anders's choked sound of horror as he recognised Hawke's sundered fingers. Merrill retching when the Arishok's boot came down on them.

Hawke slower now, the Arishok bleeding from dozens of small cuts but just as swift, just as strong as when the endless duel had begun.

Fenris stood and watched, a statue of cracked ice. One wrong tap, and he would shatter.

_Hawke..._

The last of her smoke grenades exploded at the Arishok's feet, buying her a precious moment to down a healing potion, stop her hand bleeding. She grinned at them – a weary, bloodstained flash of teeth, before the Qunari came charging out of the smoke and she flung herself out of the way.

But the tide had truly turned when the Arishok maimed her. Hawke was running out of tricks; Fenris could deny it no longer. She was losing – he was losing her, and without her, he had nothing.

He _was_ nothing.

She had been dancing around the Arishok before, but now the Qunari seemed to be playing with her, with the calm, distant sadism of a cat with a cornered mouse. Whenever she showed herself he pounced, allowing her to slip away with another claw-mark upon her.

She was bleeding and it was all his fault, she was going to-

"_Hawke!"_ her name was torn from his throat, and Fenris flung himself forward, trying to make that unyielding wall of Qunari part for him. Her eyes met his for an instant, and she mouthed a word.

"_Sorry_."

Just that, as she wiped her dagger over a certain fold of her gauntlet and poisoned the blade, and the Arishok's sword thrust forward, and she didn't dodge – bloodstained steel protruding from her back, her body sliding down the huge blade as he lifted her high, and the sound of it would ring in Fenris's ears until the day he died.

"_Ataash varin kata_," the Arishok said, almost gently, to the woman impaled on his sword and dying. _In the end lies glory. _

"Guess... again..." Hawke said, blood trickling from her mouth. With a sudden, violent spasm, she buried her poisoned dagger in the Qunari's eye. He shuddered – she cried out only weakly as his movement shook her upon the sword-

- and the Arishok fell. The circle of Qunari broke.

They ran to Hawke's side – the mages, the storyteller, the captain, the elf who loved her. Aveline pulled the sword free; Anders poured his heart and soul into healing and Fenris threw himself to his knees beside her, her limp, maimed hand cradled in his as he begged silently for her life.

If she lived, he would beg for her forgiveness.

He watched her pale face as the sun beat down on them and never knew when the Qunari left, when Isabela joined them, when others of the city guard came to Aveline for orders, when Anders sat back, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked only at Hawke, and knew when her breathing steadied, when a vestige of colour returned to her face, when her eyes opened.

"Well," Hawke croaked, "that could have gone better. I take it I won?"

"Hawke," Varric told her, "I watched that and I still don't believe it. There's no way I'll ever be able to tell this properly."

Isabela shouldered the dwarf aside – and slapped Hawke (but gently). "That's for sticking me outside the Qunari compound." Then she bent over and kissed Hawke hard on the mouth. "That's for the dramatic rescue. Besides, you're all helpless right now; I probably won't get another chance like this."

"It was... it was my idea," Fenris said. He still couldn't believe it, and he would never forget what he had done – but he could not help the emotion that rushed through him, the smile on his lips. Hawke was going to live. "My fault."

"Got it," Isabela said, then punched him.

Anders chuckled wearily.

"Hey, hey, none of that," Hawke protested. "We're getting married today, and then we're going to join the Grey Wardens." She looked up at Fenris, her lips twitching. "Don't tell me you forgot to speak to the Grand Cleric about it."

"I have had... other things on my mind," Fenris said. "Hawke..._forgive me."_

"Blondie, would you check my ears? I think I just heard-"

"No, I heard that too, and I don't _think_ Hawke has concussion." The mage poked at her head. "Grey Wardens? _Married_?"

"You know that letter was a joke, right?" Varric asked.

"I guessed, but it's still a good idea. Tell you all about it," Hawke said, slowly sitting up. "Later. Get that ridiculous pain-block spell off Isabela first."

"I _knew _you were behind that!" the pirate said, setting hands to hips. "I also _kissed_ Meredith, you know!"

"You did _what_ to the Knight-Commander?" Anders asked, then, "actually, don't tell me. I've had enough shocks for one day."

"Well, she is pretty," Merrill piped up. "I wish I had her hair, don't you? And her eyes are very pretty too, if a bit intense, sometimes I think she must have trouble seeing, she stares so hard –"

Leaning on Fenris, Hawke got up; Aveline offered Anders an arm, and Merrill chattered away at both of them.

Varric heaved a sigh, and looked up at Isabela. "Honestly, Rivaini, this whole mess was not what I expected when I stuck that potion into her drink."

"It worked, though. Eventually." The pirate grinned. "You have to admit it, it did get them together. That's ten sovereigns you owe me."

"Despite the _eventual_ success of your little plot, that is positively the last time I play matchmaker."

"Fifteen says you can't get that Chantry priest – Sebashful – to kiss Merrill."

"Well, Bianca could use a new- damn you, Rivaini."


End file.
